Pretty Awesome
by Joodiff
Summary: Blame the mis-adventures of a friend's teenage daughter for this short bit of nonsense. Meet Sammi Boyd, niece of... Probably set between S8 and S9. Just a bit of fun. Boyd/Grace - but only sort of. WARNING: rated T for strong language. Enjoy!


**Pretty Awesome**

Okay, so I'm, like, in so much trouble. And I mean serious _omfg_ trouble. I dunno where Matt and Bryony are 'cos I was so out of it when the police made me get into their car. And I can't text them or anything 'cos they've taken my mobile and stuff. I am _so_ dead. It's going to, like, be a million zillion years before mum and dad let me out of their sight again, I just know it, and that really sucks because Matt was going to drive us up to the Latitude Festival this summer and now I'm probably going to be chained up in my room for months like a complete slave or something.

"Sammi Boyd," I say when they ask me who I am. I know. Lame. Right? All the uber cool fake names in the world and for a moment I'm so scared that I forget to lie. Fuck.

And then I have this really good idea and when they ask me where I live I give them Uncle Peter's address, 'cos if anyone can get me out of this alive, I figure it's going to be him, right? And maybe it's not going to hurt to tell them that yeah, he's my next-of-kin and by the way, that's, like, Detective Superintendent to you, Sergeant. Which kind of goes down really badly, from the look on the guy's face, but hey, it's too late now, and however nuts Pete's going to go when they call him, he's sure as anything not going to go as mad as mum and dad. Well, maybe not.

I'm sure there must be a law against locking kids up in a place this… rank. Don't you have to be proper murderer or something before they can do that? I'm really, really going to need to pee soon, and there's, like, no way I'm going to use the toilet in here where any old perv can look in and see me. This is all, like, "Hello? Is this a zoo, or what?"

Omigod. I'm sure that was Pete I just heard out there. This is going to be so totally embarrassing.

Actually, Uncle Peter's a bear, but I can't help feeling better that he's here, 'cos even though I just know he's going to be really hacked off, I know he isn't going to take any crap off that stupid sergeant who told them to put me in here "to cool off". What does that even mean?

The door gets opened – about time! – and, yup, there's Pete. And _omfg_ does he look pissed off. I mean, really, really pissed off.

"Hi, Uncle Peter," I say, trying to sound all sweet and shy like I did when I was four years old and begging for a ride on his shoulders. I figure it's got to be worth a try, right?

One of the constables from earlier says, "Is this your niece, sir?"

Well, duh.

Pete tells him yes – obviously – and I get marched out as if I'm some serial killer or something. And there's, like, a shedload of forms to sign and lots of "let this be a lesson to you, young lady" type crap from the sergeant until Pete gets even more pissed off and starts shouting. Which is kind of cool and scary all at the same time, because even though he's about nine hundred years old, he's like six foot tall or something and he doesn't take any shit off anyone. Best thing is, though: hello, I'm his favourite niece, so suck on that, Sergeant Dickface.

Yay, freedom!

"Throw up in my car," Pete says as we walk down the steps and onto the street, "and you'll find out the hard way how much a full valet costs in London."

"I'm not that pissed," I tell him indignantly, which is, like, totally true now. Good thing he didn't see me earlier, right?

He's pretty mad, but I kind of know he understands. I try for some Brownie points, "Thanks for coming to get me, Uncle Pete."

"Blind drunk in Leicester Square?" he says. "For fuck's sake, Sammi."

My Uncle Peter's pretty cool for an old guy.

Mum and dad would be pretty much hysterical by now. But then mum's a teacher at a dead posh school and dad works in a bank, so I guess they're pretty straight-laced compared to Pete, who's, like, totally used to looking at dead people and talking to serial killers and all sorts of weird shit like that. Which is pretty cool, too, right?

"I'm so dead," I say as we get in the car. And Pete's car's sort of cool, too, 'cos it's an Audi not a BMW and it's not some lame silver colour like dad's Merc, and I just know it's tricked out with blue strobes and stuff, even though he probably doesn't even know where the switches are to use them.

"You're so dead," he agrees with me. "Better stay at my place tonight, then, hadn't you?"

He calls mum and for a moment I'm, like, so jealous 'cos he's got a fucking Blackberry, which is way better than my rubbish old iPhone, but I kind of forget to be jealous when I realise he's lying through his teeth to save me from spending the rest of my life locked in my room while everyone else is out partying. And I think about my cousin who nobody ever mentions and I wonder if he ever realised how cool his dad was compared to everyone else's, and that makes me, like, so sad.

"Do you want the lecture?" Pete asks me as we zoom along in his kick-ass Audi.

"Nope," I say. "C'mon, Uncle Peter, it was just a few drinks for a mate's birthday."

"You're fifteen," he says, but that's it. Dad would still be ranting, but not Pete.

Pete was fifteen about a trillion years ago, right back in the War, or something. OK, well, maybe not quite that long ago, but right back in the 'sixties, anyway. Which is, like, prehistory, or something. I mean, no mobiles, no laptops, nothing. No MySpace, no Facebook or Twitter. God, I mean, hello? That's dawn of time stuff. But at least Pete was out partying while dad had his nose in his books. I think my mum married the wrong brother, seriously, 'cos while dad was at Uni being a complete nerd, Pete was getting pissed up and learning to play the guitar. And that's, like, actually true, 'cos I've seen the pictures of him with long hair and stuff.

His phone rings, and he answers it without the hands free, which is so totally illegal.

"Boyd," he says in his police officer voice, and then, "Yeah, thanks, Spence. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Hi, Spence!" I yell, and I get a warning mega-glare for it. Spence is pretty cool, too. And fit. For an older guy. My mate Carly reckons black guys are definitely hotter than white guys, but maybe that's kind of racist? Whatever. Spence is still pretty fit, anyway.

Well, whaddya know? All the lights are on. Either Uncle Pete's taken to wasting his electric (not likely), or he's got a visitor. And I'll bet you anything you like I know who that might be.

Bingo. I'm so right. Always.

"Hi, Grace," I say as I'm forcibly shepherded through the front door.

She smiles at me, and even though she's probably even older than Pete, she gives me a wink and says, "Hi, Sammi. In trouble again?"

"Yeah," I tell her, pulling a face. "If Uncle Pete grasses me up I think I'll be grounded until I'm, like, fifty, or something."

Grace laughs and I kind of think everything's going to be OK, because Pete's pretty much a pussycat really, and if anyone can convince him to keep his mouth shut, it's Grace.

Grace is pretty cool, too, actually, even though she's some kind of shrink. No-one in our family seems to quite know what's going on with her and Pete, but I'm here to tell you that when she stays over she's not in the spare room. Which is kind of eeewwww and kind of cool at the same time. I'm pretty sure they're both far too old to be… you know. But she sleeps in Pete's room with him. (Eeewwww.)

"Do you feel all right?" Grace asks me. "Do you feel sick?"

"Not any more," I say, which is totally true.

Pete shakes his head in that really lame "what are we going to do with you" way that all old people seem to do, but just as I think he's changed his mind and here comes the lecture anyway, he grabs me in a massive bear hug instead. And it's, like, totally embarrassing and really nice all at the same time, 'cos I sort of feel like a little kid again, and I realise that all he's interested in is making sure I'm safe. Which is pretty awesome when you think about it, 'cos it's like knowing you've got your own guardian angel who's well fucking hard even if he's about nine hundred years old.

It's kind of nice to lie down, even if the room does spin a bit. It's, like, two in the morning and really quiet outside.

I can hear Grace and Uncle Peter as they come up the stairs and she's telling him to keep his mouth shut to mum and dad, like I hoped she would, and Pete's grumbling like he always does, which makes me want to laugh 'cos he can be such a grumpy old sod. And the best fucking uncle on the planet.

I hear Pete's door close, and I really don't want to know what they're going to be getting up to in there. There should be a law against anyone over thirty even thinking about sex. Seriously. But at least they're too old to actually be doing it. (Eeewwww.)

I think about texting Bryony, but I can't because Pete's still got my iPhone. Which is a bit of a pisser, 'cos he's got wi-fi and the last time I was here it took me about three tries to guess his password (how's that for security, Detective Superintendent?), so if I'd remembered to get it back I could've gone on Facebook for a bit.

I should, like, just go to sleep. I'll call Bryony in the morning. I bet she's grounded, tho', 'cos her parents are really strict and the last time I remember seeing her she was throwing up everywhere.

What a totally awesome night. Uh, oh… I think I might be going to be sick…


End file.
